The first week of May arrived with a warmth that seemed to wake the castle from its long winter sleep. The grounds that had been brown and muddy in March were now carpeted in green, and the first flowers of spring pushed through the soil around the edges of the lake. Students who had been cooped up indoors for months began to appear on the lawns, their faces turned to the sun, their voices carrying across the water.
But Edmund did not join them. He sat in the library, surrounded by books on wizarding law, inheritance, and the bloodlines of the ancient families. The fifth task was behind him, and the sixth—the final task—would not come until July. Two months of waiting. Two months of preparation. Two months of questions.
The ring on his finger pulsed as he read, warm and steady. It had been leading him toward this since the day he first put it on. The Chamber of Secrets. Salazar Slytherin. The basilisk. He had the key—Parseltongue. But Parseltongue alone, he knew, might not be enough. The basilisk had been placed in the Chamber by Salazar Slytherin himself, enchanted to obey only his true blood descendants. A speaker without the blood might be tolerated, but not obeyed. And if the basilisk perceived an intruder, it would attack. The old texts were clear on this point: the serpent recognized its master by the magic in their veins, not the words on their tongue.
Edmund needed certainty. He needed to know, beyond any doubt, that he carried the blood of Slytherin.
He closed the book and walked to the window. The lake was dark, the sun reflecting off its surface in ripples of gold. He thought about the Wizengamot, about his seat, about the power that came with his title. He was Lord Prince. He had access to records that most wizards could not touch. He had the right to petition the Ministry, to demand answers, to seek the truth.
It was time to use that power.
---
## Part Two: Inquiries
He wrote to Mr. Thornbury that afternoon, asking for a meeting. The solicitor's response came the next morning, crisp and efficient.
*Lord Prince,*
*I will be at Hogwarts on the sixth of May. We can meet in the Headmaster's office, which has been made available for such consultations. Please bring any documents or artifacts you believe are relevant to your inquiry.*
*Yours,*
*Elias Thornbury*
---
The sixth of May arrived clear and bright. Edmund stood in the entrance hall, waiting for Mr. Thornbury to arrive. He had spent the past few days gathering his thoughts, organizing his questions, preparing himself for a conversation that could change everything.
The solicitor appeared in the fireplace at precisely ten o'clock, stepping out of the green flames with a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other. He looked around the entrance hall with the air of a man who had seen it all before.
"Lord Prince," he said, nodding. "Shall we?"
They climbed the stairs to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle stepped aside at the password—*sherbet lemon*, which Edmund found absurd—and they entered a circular room lined with portraits of former headmasters. The current Headmaster, Phineas Nigellus Black, was not present, which suited Edmund fine.
Mr. Thornbury settled into a chair and opened his briefcase. "You mentioned in your letter that you wished to discuss matters of inheritance. Specifically, the verification of a bloodline claim."
Edmund sat across from him. "I have reason to believe that I may be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin."
Mr. Thornbury's eyebrows rose. "That is a significant claim. May I ask what evidence you have?"
Edmund reached into his robes and pulled out the marriage document—the fragile parchment that Astrid had sent from the Greengrass archives. He handed it to the solicitor.
"This document records a marriage between a Prince and a Slytherin in the twelfth century," Edmund said. "The union is recognized by both families. It has been authenticated by the Greengrass family archives."
Mr. Thornbury examined the parchment carefully, holding it up to the light, studying the wax seals and the handwriting. His eyes widened.
"This is genuine," he said. "The seals are consistent with twelfth-century magical documentation. The language is period-appropriate. I would need to have it formally authenticated by the Ministry, but... this is compelling evidence."
He set the parchment down and looked at Edmund. "You also mentioned a ring."
Edmund removed the Prince family ring from his finger and handed it over. The solicitor examined it with equal care, turning it over in his fingers, holding it up to the light.
"The spiral," he said. "I have seen this symbol before. It is ancient—older than Hogwarts, older than the Founders. It appears in texts on bloodline magic, on the rituals used to verify hereditary claims." He set the ring down beside the document. "This is not proof on its own, but it is supporting evidence. To establish a formal claim, you would need to undergo a bloodline verification ritual."
Edmund leaned forward. "Tell me about it."
---
Mr. Thornbury opened a file from his briefcase and spread the documents across the table. "The verification of a bloodline claim is a complex legal and magical process. It is governed by the Wizengamot's Committee on Hereditary Rights, a body that has not convened in over fifty years. The last time a founder's bloodline was successfully verified was in the seventeenth century, when the Gaunt family established their descent from Salazar Slytherin."
"The Gaunts," Edmund said. He had read about them—a pure-blood family that had fallen into ruin, their bloodline thinning, their power fading. They had been the last known descendants of Slytherin.
"The Gaunts are extinct," Mr. Thornbury said. "Or nearly so. Their line died out in the early nineteenth century. If you have a claim, it would be through a different branch of the family—one that was not recorded in the official genealogies."
"How do I prove it?"
Mr. Thornbury pulled a document from the file. "The standard method is a bloodline verification ritual, administered by the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. The ritual requires a sample of your blood and a sample of a known artifact from the bloodline you claim. The magic will compare the magical signatures and determine if you are a descendant."
Edmund thought about the ring, about the marriage document. "The ring is a family heirloom. Would that suffice?"
"It would need to be authenticated by the Department's Curators. They would examine its magical signature and determine if it carries the mark of the Slytherin bloodline. The marriage document would serve as supporting evidence." Mr. Thornbury paused. "The ritual is irreversible. Once performed, the results are final. There is no appeal. If the magic confirms your descent, you will receive a certificate of heritage. If it does not, the claim is dismissed."
Edmund was silent for a long moment. The risk was real. But the reward—the certainty, the knowledge, the ability to face the basilisk without fear—was beyond measure.
"I want to proceed," he said.
Mr. Thornbury nodded slowly. "I will arrange a meeting with the Department of Mysteries."
---
## Part Three: The Ritual
The meeting was scheduled for the fifteenth of May. Edmund traveled to London alone, his wand in his pocket, the ring on his finger, the marriage document in his bag. The Ministry of Magic was busy, the atrium crowded with witches and wizards going about their business. Edmund walked through the golden fountain, past the fireplaces, to the lifts that would take him to the Department of Mysteries.
The lift descended deeper than he had ever gone. Level Nine. The door opened onto a corridor of black stone, lit by torches that flickered with an eerie blue flame. A witch in grey robes was waiting for him.
"Lord Prince," she said. "Follow me."
She led him through a series of doors, each one sealed with a different lock—a key, a password, a handprint, a drop of blood. The final door opened onto a circular room, its walls lined with shelves of crystal vials, each one glowing with a faint, internal light. In the center of the room, a stone altar stood, its surface carved with runes that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic glow.
"The verification ritual will take place here," the witch said. "Please place your hand on the altar and provide a sample of your blood."
Edmund stepped forward. The altar was cold, the stone smooth beneath his palm. He felt a small prick—a needle of magic, not metal—and a drop of his blood fell into a crystal vial that had appeared on the altar's surface. The witch took the marriage document, touched it to the vial, and placed the ring beside them both. She began to chant in a language Edmund did not recognize—old, guttural, the words seeming to come from the stones themselves.
The runes on the altar flared to life, glowing with a warm, golden light. The vial pulsed, the blood within it swirling and changing color—from red to silver to gold. The ring grew hot, then warm, then settled into a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of the magic. The room filled with a hum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, vibrating through Edmund's bones.
The light faded. The hum stopped. The witch looked at the vial, then at the ring, then at Edmund. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were bright.
"The ritual is complete," she said. "The magic confirms that you are a descendant of the Slytherin bloodline. You will receive a certificate of heritage within the week. Congratulations, Lord Prince."
Edmund let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. He was a descendant. The blood of Salazar Slytherin flowed in his veins. The basilisk would recognize him.
---